My uncle said that this expression, “sweet savour,” alludes to the custom in the Roman procession, of strewing the streets with flowers, and causing the altars to smoke with incense; while, immediately before the victorious general, a long train of attendants marched, carrying perfumes, which exhaled a sweet and powerful fragrance;—and thus was the knowledge of Christ, like a reviving odour, diffused around, to improve and strengthen all who received it. Indeed, it is still the custom of all eastern nations, he says, to introduce sweet waters and other perfumes, on solemn occasions, which makes the propriety of the allusion still more strong.
15th.—As we walked through the flower-garden to-day, I ventured to suggest that the yucca and the prickly pear would make more impenetrable hedges than the sweet-brier and china rose.
“I cannot help smiling,” said my aunt, “at your partiality to the plants to which you have been accustomed, when you would prefer hedges of the frightful prickly pear to these. If, indeed, we could have such hedges of the Chinese hibiscus as they have in India, they might be desirable.”
I assured my aunt that I did not prefer those plants for beauty, but as useful from their strength, and, therefore, worth introducing into England.
“I am afraid,” said she, “their succulent nature might make them liable to be injured by frost.” “Besides,” said my uncle, “these plants have not yet been well naturalised to our climate, though they do grow in the open ground in some few gardens; and then we have our beautiful whitethorn and our furze, both of which, if kept in order, and well clipped, make a secure fence against all depredators; the holly, too, with its bright and beautiful dark green foliage, makes an admirable hedge.”
As we walked along, my uncle shewed me all these and other plants for hedges, saying, “You may observe, Bertha, that one of the numerous marks of a gracious Providence is the variety of means which he puts at our command in the different parts of the world. In every region we find plants suited to the soil and climate, and adapted for the use and advantage of its inhabitants; and we may generally discover some circumstance attending them, which renders those native productions of peculiar value to the people who possess them.”
“But, uncle,” said I, “can that be the case in such countries as Lapland and Norway, which give one an idea of the utmost misery and want?”
“You have named a part of the world,” he replied, “which is an excellent proof of what I have just said. There, you know, the rein-deer, that most useful animal, contributes in every way to the comfort and the sustenance of the inhabitants. They drink the milk—they eat the flesh—they make clothing of the skin—and, besides, with its assistance, they can move from place to place with delightful swiftness, when otherwise they must be confined by the snow, during three-fourths of the year. But what would become of the rein-deer, was there not an abundant supply of the vegetable on which its vast herds are supported—the rein-deer moss. No vegetable grows throughout Lapland in such abundance; for many miles together the surface of the sterile soil is covered with it, like snow: and on the destruction of forests by fire, when no other plant can find nutriment, this moss, or lichen, springs up and flourishes. Here the rein-deer are pastured, and whatever may be the depth of snow during the long winter of that climate, they have the power of penetrating through it, and obtaining the necessary food.”
“But still, uncle,” said I, “useful as that same moss is, you cannot consider it among the vegetable productions on which man can live. It supports the rein-deer, and the rein-deer sustains man—but man could not live on moss or lichen.”
“There is a common saying, my little Bertha,” replied he, “that one-half of the world knows not how the other half live. Now, there is a certain lichen called Iceland-moss which is brought to England as a medicine, and which no one would suppose could be used as food; yet it is a fact that, in those northern regions of which we are speaking, immense quantities of it are gathered for home consumption as an article of common food. When the bitter quality has been extracted by steeping in water, the lichen is dried and reduced to a powder, and then made into a cake, with the addition of a little meal; or else boiled and eaten with milk—and it is eaten with thankfulness too, my dear Bertha, by the poor natives, in years of scarcity, who say that a bountiful Providence sends them bread out of the very stones.